


december 21st: in sickness and in health

by watergator



Series: december fic advent 2020 [21]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Food Poisoning, Honeymoon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Vacation, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28220898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watergator/pseuds/watergator
Summary: prompt: sick!ficdan and phil's honeymoon takes a turn when they get food poisoning
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Series: december fic advent 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035978
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	december 21st: in sickness and in health

Of course both Dan and Phil get sick during their honeymoon.

Of all the places they’d travelled around the world, Hawaii had been one place they’d somehow managed to skip out on. 

Whilst it still was in the range of Phil’s love for America, and Dan’s excitement of being on an island away from the rest of civilisation, Hawaii had seemed like a pretty good stop for the place to celebrate their new marriage.

And it had been going pretty good, for the most part. They spent days lounging on the private beach they had to themselves, eating fresh fruit and dipping their feet into cold water, until the other one pretended that there was a shark lurking around, and they’d both go running back to the shore just a little bit scared. 

And they’d had a plethora of ocean view restaurants to spend each evening lounging around; sipping on fruity cocktails and ordering the most interesting things they could find on the menu, even if they had no idea what it even was until it had arrived at their table.

They’d play footsie under the moonlight, whisper in hushed voices and play with the matching rings on their opposite fingers like a new bad habit. It all seemed so perfect. 

Until it wasn’t.

Of course, Hawaii was a beautifully scenic place. New place, new smells, new sights. New food.

And all those beachside restaurants Dan and Phil had been ploughing through each night, of course one of them had been a little on the dodgy side; they just didn’t know which one exactly.

But Dan doesn’t really care about semantics, not when he’s curled up on the bed, the fan above them is whirring at top speed as he holds himself, trying to not move as sweat trickles down his back, soaking the thin sheets beneath him.

Phil’s in the bathroom, faint groans and moans can be heard through the door every now and then, but Dan chooses to ignore them as he tries to imagine someplace steady and clean and relaxing as he does his best not to think about how overwhelming the need to vomit feels.

In reality, he knows that if he is sick, he’ll probably feel better, but it’s that weird human fear that stops him, clutching himself as he wills the nausea to subside.

But it’s no use. For whatever reason, he’s thinking about the chicken he had last night and that’s all it takes to set him off; his stomach churns and he’s leaping up and making a break for the bathroom, flinging the door open with a crash that Phil looks up so suddenly he almost gives himself whiplash.

He’s sat on the toilet; his boxers are pooled around his ankles - where the rest of his clothes are, Dan doesn’t know nor care. His face is flushed and blotchy and his quiff has fallen over his eyes that are watering.

Dan doesn’t have time to ask if he’s feeling okay, because he’s grabbing the waste bin beside him and pulling it to his face where he chucks up his guts.

He grimaces; there’s an old snotty tissue and an old, used condom in here (both theirs, of course) but it makes him feel sick having his face so close to the content of it, and he’s sick again.

He’s spits, pulling a face at the taste in his mouth when Phil moans beside him.

He now has his head between his legs, groaning and moaning like he’s giving birth, and Dan doesn’t have to ask if he’s alright when the  _ smell _ hits him.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dan croaks, hiccuping and quickly pulling the bin under his face just in case. “What the  _ fuck _ , Phil?”

Phil says nothing, but just groans. He tenses, then relaxes again.

“Oh god,” Dan moans, and he’s being sick again.

“Get out!” Phil tries to yell, his voice cracking. “Leave me alone!”

Dan stumbles to his feet, chest heaving at how hard a simple activity had been. He stands over Phil who looks up at him weakly.

“What?” He asks quietly.

“Need to empty the bin,” Dan sniffs, giving it a shake only to quickly regret that as it gives a disgusting sloshing sound.

“Not here,” Phil shakes his head, hanging it low again like he’s got no more energy left. “You're not flushing your sick down the toilet whilst I’m still on it,” he scowls, like actual scowls, and that’s how Dan knows he feels like proper shit.

“Phil,” Dan says flatly. “I can’t carry this around with me, it  _ stinks.” _

“You stink,” Phil mumbles, his head is low between his knees and he’s swaying ever so slightly from side to side.

If Dan had the energy, he’d muster a dry laugh. But he doesn’t, and he can’t. 

“Phil, move your ass, please,” he tries but Phil just weakly lifts his head up at him, his face looking a little less red than it was a moment ago, but the look of doom is still deep within his features.

“If you try to move me from this toilet, I swear to god, Daniel, my insides right now are like the friggin’ hot flowing lava rivers of Mount Tambora. I’m not moving off this toilet until it’s safe.”

Dan groans and slumps back onto the floor. At least the tiles are cool on his burning skin.

He cradles the waste bin to his chest like it’s his child as the room swims around him.

“What the fuck did we eat?” Phil groans from between his legs and Dan does a little hiccup.

“Don’t talk to me about food,” he warns him, holding the bin a little tighter. “Seriously, my stomach is like a tidal wave right now.”

Phil makes some more panting noises, and Dan’s seen enough birthing scenes in movies (and the weird youtube videos Phil sometimes makes him watch) and it sounds eerily similar.

“I don’t care either way what it was or wasn’t,” Phil says with a heavy sigh. “I just want it out of me.”

Dan musters up enough energy for a dry laugh.

“Mate,” he says weakly. “I think you’ve definitely shat it out by now.”

Phil looks at him, face red still and eyes wide.

“This is so unsexy,” he says, like the reality of what was happening had just dawned upon him.

“Here you are, cradling your own vomit whilst I shit this lovely toilet up,” he stops, and pulls a face. “Oh god, the cleaning lady is gonna judge us so hard if we mess up this toilet.”

Dan groans, dipping his head down into the bin only to pull it out again, the smell being too much.

“I don’t think you’ll be too bothered,” Dan shrugs. “Nothing ever seems to matter when you feel like utter shit.”

And it was true to some degree. Sometimes dignity and all that just flew right out of the window when all you care about is feeling better and not having to worry about what was coming out either end of your body.

Dan’s pulled from his thoughts when Phil makes a straining noise and then a sigh. “Hand me some toilet roll, will you?” He asks, voice a little shaky.

Dan’s able to grab it from where he’s sitting, passing it over without having too much; his body still feeling on the edge of that wave.

“I hate Hawaii,” he grumbles, his stomach doing yet another somersault, an indication that he probably is going to throw up again. 

“Don’t say that,” Phil croaks. “You said you loved Hawaii yesterday, when we were on the beach together? And you were being all lovey dovey?”

Dan scoffs, picking at the weaving around the rim of the bin, eyes flickering up to watch Phil for a moment before looking away.

He’s seen everything but he still can give his husband a little privacy. 

“Yeah well that was before we were poisoned,” he tells him. “That was when I was feeling all sexy and loved up.”

He stops to look at Phil who’s still sat on the toilet, beads of sweat gather at his temples leaving Dan wondering if maybe he’s running a fever too, or maybe he’s just strained from being on the toilet too long.

“Besides, this isn’t very sexy, is it?” He reminds him. “There’s no way I’m in the mood tonight. Or ever, even,” he says, even though that’s a definite lie.

Phil grumbles. “No way,” he agrees. “My ass is strictly off limits for the next… thirty years, I reckon.”

Dan sniffs. Thirty years seems an appropriate amount of time to overcome explosive diarrhoea.

“Fair enough,” Dan’s voice cracks.

There’s a beat of silence, then,

“You don’t think… we’re dying, are we?”

Dan looks up at Phil; his eyes are wide and he’s literally sitting on the edge of his seat as he waits for Dan’s response.

He simply frowns deeply at him.

“What?” Is all he manages.

“Well,” Phil starts. “I was just thinking, eating some food can actually be like, proper deadly if it’s not cooked right.” He pauses, as if to think. “Oh! Like some sort of fish or something.”

Dan’s stomach does another acrobatic act and he winces at the feeling. 

“That’s  _ pufferfish _ ,” Dan reminds him. “Like on The Simpsons. Or The Sims.”

Phil makes a face of recognition. “Oh,” he says. “Right.”

“And besides,” Dan starts, but his stomach is already churning and rolling around inside him. “We didn’t have the fish we had the ch—”

He cuts himself off as he leans forwards and coughs and splutters as more of their doomed dinner makes its way out of his stomach and into the slushy mix of vomit, tissues and condoms. He’s sure that there’s even a bit of loose jizz floating around in there now.

“So fucking sexy,” Dan spits, using the back of his hand to wipe at his mouth.

Phil groans, still wobbling from side to side ever so slightly as he keeps his head between his knees, looking up to ask Dan,

“How long do you think this’ll last?” He almost pleads. “If it is food poisoning?”

Dan huffs, clearing his throat where it feels thick and uncomfortable.

“I dunno,” he shrugs weakly. “If we’re still like this in the next three days then I reckon we need to put our insurance to good use and find a fucking doctor,” he says through gritted teeth; his stomach is cramping and feeling sore from all its recent activity. “I hate this. I hate this so fucking much.”

Phil gives a dry sob from where he’s hunched over. 

“We were gonna go on that boat tour tomorrow,” he moans. “I was looking forward to that.”

Dan grimaces; the thought of being on a boat with rocky water doesn’t exactly help the situation. He swallows thickly and frowns.

“Don’t think that’s a good idea,” he croaks. “Unless you want whatever beautiful river we were supposed to be visiting full of our shit and vomit.”

Phil makes a noise in the back of his throat. 

“Don’t say that. Oh  _ god. _ ”

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, Phil’s able to stumble his way off the toilet, making sure no…  _ mess  _ is left behind, and Dan does a half ass job of cleaning the waste bin out, trying not to look at it or smell it as he does so.

Phil’s practically crawling into bed, two glasses of water sit on each bedside, and the fan above them is still whirring around at top speed.

So when Dan falls against the mattress, stretching his arms and legs out like a starfish as he just lays there and bathes in the slightly cool air being tickled against his skin, it makes him feel just a teeny tiny bit better.

“Our streak is ruined,” Phil rasps from beside him. Dan has just about enough energy to turn his head to look at him through one squinted eye.

Phil turns to face him.

“Our streak,” he says again when he notices the puzzled look on his husband's face. “Our sex streak. It’s ruined.”

Dan blinks, the gives a snort of laughter, turning away to look back up at the ceiling.

“I thought you said your ass was off limit for the next twenty years?” He asks.

“Thirty,” Phil corrects him. “And it is. But yours isn’t.”

Dan snorts again. “Oi,” he says, voice cracking. “That stupid fucking ch– the stupid fucking dinner already rearranged my guts. Beat you to it I’m afraid.”

Phil sighs heavily, making a noise of disgust, and in the corner of his eye he can make out Phil throwing an arm over his eyes.

“You’re grim, you are,” he says flatly, making Dan laugh some more, clutching his stomach where it hurts still.

“You bought it up,” he reminds him.

“Mmh,” is the sleepy response he gets.

“Gonna sleep for the whole holiday I reckon,” Dan comments, feeling tired now; body achy and the mattress is just so soft under his skin, it’d be a crime to try and stay awake.

“Don’t do that,” Phil mumbles, clearly already half asleep himself. “I need you to come home with me.”

Dan closes his eyes, guessing Phil’s done the same. “Just carry me, bridal style to the plane,” he whispers.

“I’ll carry your mum bridal style,” Phil replies, words slurring with sleep.

“Shut up or I’ll throw up on you.”

“I’ll poo on your first.”

“Gross.”

“You’re gross.”

They continue their banter, slurred and incoherent until at some point they fall asleep, sprawled out on the bed, side by side, with their skin hot and tacky still, and the fan above them whirls around, both unbothered as they sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> come say on tumblr !! @watergator


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